


Against the Odds

by Kiwikiwi591



Series: Colourblind [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Color blind AU, Emotional, Feels, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:58:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiwikiwi591/pseuds/Kiwikiwi591
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>	Sherlock clung to this for a long time; constantly cementing it in his head that colour didn’t matter. Every time the odd ache in his chest returned at a particularly colourful memory, he simply reminded himself of that fact, and deleted the memory in question. Or at least, he tried to delete it. For a reason that he couldn’t understand, he couldn’t quite bring himself to permanently throw away the memories. He just stowed them in that same dusty corner, allowing them to collect like piles of old books in a closet. At times, it was almost a childish comfort to remember the days of colour; even the lightish pink of a painful scrape was better than nothing at all.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the Odds

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to A New Way to See. It's advised to read that first, but you'll probably get the general idea even if you don't.
> 
> This is Sherlock's POV of the events leading up to him and John's first meeting.

            “You had to expect it to happen eventually,” Mycroft said, bending down to look his little brother in the eyes. “You couldn’t hold onto them forever. Everyone loses them at some point.”

            Sherlock, aged 12, lost his colour sooner than most. He was expecting at least another two years of coloured vision, dared to hope for even three or four. Mummy had told him that Mycroft had lost his early as well, rubbing a soothing hand on his back as he sniffled. Mycroft had scoffed, straightening the tie on his school uniform.

            “So sentimental. Do try to cheer up,” he said. “It’s not so bad after the first few months.”

            It was as close to comforting words as Mycroft had ever gotten. And he was right; after a couple months, the lack of colour sight became another dull fact in the background, pushed to the dusty corners of his mind. It was only dragged up to the surface whenever someone new lost their colours; he’d been the first in his class. Each one had seemed sad for a long time afterwards, and Sherlock merely scoffed at their attachment. It was just another distraction to what was truly important; you didn’t need colour to get along in life. As a matter of fact, he was sure that the addition of colour would only hamper his deductive abilities. With the spectrum out of the way, and only values to work with, contrast was much easier to pick up on.

            Sherlock clung to this for a long time; constantly cementing it in his head that colour didn’t matter. Every time the odd ache in his chest returned at a particularly colourful memory, he simply reminded himself of that fact, and deleted the memory in question. Or at least, he tried to delete it. For a reason that he couldn’t understand, he couldn’t quite bring himself to permanently throw away the memories. He just stowed them in that same dusty corner, allowing them to collect like piles of old books in a closet. At times, it was almost a childish comfort to remember the days of colour; even the lightish pink of a painful scrape was better than nothing at all.

            As Sherlock grew older and floated through the years, he began to get almost bitter about colour; he shoved the memories deeper and deeper each time he was reminded of it. One day, he realised that he couldn’t find them at all anymore.

            Good riddance.

            Throughout university, Sherlock put up with the talk of finding a soulmate. People would talk about it often. Drifting through the halls and the courtyard, everyone was always abuzz about that magical moment. It happened the minute you saw them, they said. The second you locked eyes with that one person, the world would slowly drift into colour. There were many people who travelled the world, searching for their other half. It was a foolish effort, Sherlock thought; devoting your life to finding the one person, all to bring in another layer of perception. The reward wasn’t even close to balanced with the effort.

            But, as the years went on, people began to find their pairs. It was always such a huge event; it was obvious when they finally found each other. He’d seen it happen a couple of times just walking down the street or through the shops. Two complete strangers, but just that one second of eye contact, and it was like the world disappeared around them. Sometimes there were embraces, other times there were kisses; there were always tears. Others would watch, getting tearful themselves at the sight of it; two halves, finally joined.

            Sherlock tried to tell himself that it was ridiculous, but somewhere deep in his mind, he longed for that kind of connection with somebody. To have someone who would actually _understand_ all that he did, rather than push him away and call him terrible things. He’d carefully built walls, shielding himself from the outside world.

            Aged 25, Sherlock still hadn’t found his other half, and was convinced he never would. The walls grew thicker than ever.

            Then, someone had told him about the drugs; someone he’d gotten just barely close enough to to begin to consider them an acquaintance. Not quite a friend. He didn’t have friends.

            Nonetheless, that one dark night, Seb blinked languidly while offering a filled syringe.

            “You’ll see it,” he said quietly. “Colour. For just a moment, you’ll see it.”

            Sherlock stared at the needle. He’d spent so long telling himself that he didn’t need colour, that that part of his vision didn’t matter. He knew from his Chemistry and Biology courses just how badly these drugs could affect someone; take enough, and you could lose your colour forever. It didn’t matter if you saw the other person; they might suddenly see colour, make the connection to you, but you would never return the feeling. You would forever be without a pair.

            But the thought of seeing colour, along with his terrible curiosity, made the drug very tempting. He’d only do it once, he decided. Just enough to see colour, then he would never do it again.

            He still shivered at the memory of that needle plunging into his skin for the first time; the sharp poke followed by the quick onset of tiredness and slowed thinking. It was like time slowed to a crawl around him.

“Just wait,” Seb had said, his voice hazy. “You’ll see it.”

He never did see the colour, not through the entire four hours it took for the drug’s effects to come and go.

            He never even saw it once during the three years of his addiction.

            At the end of those terrible three years, lying in the familiar room of the rehab centre, the doctor had come in. He wore the classic mask of bad news; Sherlock feared the worst.

            As it turned out, there was still a chance. Sherlock hadn’t succeeded in completely destroying his system; there was still a 2.7% chance that he would receive his colour as normal.

            But to Sherlock, this was just as good as no chance; balance of probability.

            It was a cool January morning when he was proven wrong.

            He’d been working on a case for Lestrade, the four nicotine patches on his arm fuelling his thoughts. His mind was a whirlwind, blocking out everything else as the pieces fell into place.

            That distraction was what had allowed him to run straight into someone coming out of the cafe. Sherlock stepped back, looking down at the man.

            “Oh, sorry-“ he began, looking up at his eyes. Sherlock stopped, sucking in a sharp breath. If the man had said anything else, it was lost.

            His mind, for once, was in an absolute standstill. It was as if the gears in his head had jammed, bringing everything to a forced stop.

            The man’s eyes were blue.

            The one thought reverberated through his empty mind. The man’s eyes were blue. He caught the observation, held it close.

            _This man’s eyes were blue._

            His mind finally began to turn, focusing in on the immensity of the moment. He’d spent so long knowing that this would never happen, not only because he could never seem to earn the approval of anybody, but also because he’d gone and destroyed any chance he’d had with the stab of a needle. Only a 17% chance that he would ever meet his destined pair in either of their lifetimes, stacked alongside an impossible 2.7% chance that he would ever see colour again. This was something that was never meant to come to fruition. Sherlock had resigned himself to a life of loneliness; alone was what he had, and alone protected him. For God’s sake, the only people he could even consider “friends” only talked to him repeatedly out of pity.

            And yet, impossibly, here stood his other half.

            The look on his face, however, made Sherlock go cold with dread. He wasn’t reacting like he’d seen countless others before. There were no tears, no warm embrace of connection. For one terrifying moment, he wondered if perhaps he’d misunderstood that doctor so many years ago; maybe he was the one meant to be mismatched.

            There was only one way for him to find if this was the case.

            He took a chance, and strode forward, pulling the man into a kiss. Sherlock had never kissed anyone before; no one had ever put up with him long enough for them to drift into a temporary relationship. His lips, however, almost seemed to move of their own accord, shoving all of the emotional turmoil into the slow slide of lips. Sherlock could almost feel himself shatter, spiralling down again when he realised that the kiss wasn’t being returned. Feeling tears sting his eyes for the first time in years, he put his hands up to his mismatched half’s face, holding them there for just a moment. He was determined to have this moment of bittersweet happiness in what was now destined to be a life of terrible loneliness.

            Then, blissfully, the man began to return the gesture.

            Sherlock could have broken down right then and there. It was just as everyone had said, the world zeroing in on this one perfect moment. It was as if he’d been missing a huge part of himself, and he couldn’t fathom how he’d ever lived without this man. Somewhere, vaguely, Sherlock could tell people were stopping to stare as they bonded. He pushed it away; nothing mattered right now besides the wonderfully, achingly sweet movement. He’d finally found them; the one, he knew, that had saved his life.

            After a long while, they finally pulled apart. Sherlock was perfectly content to stare into his lover’s eyes for as long as he would stay there. It was wonderful; he could feel warmth bubbling up inside him, threatening to escape in the form of tears. He was determined, however, to not look like a fool in front of this wonderfully important man.

            “Hello,” he finally said. Sherlock could have melted at the sound of that voice; it was a voice that still brought him comfort, even years later.

            “Hello,” he replied, utterly lost for words.

            “John,” he said, introducing himself with a smile.

            John. It was a wonderful word. _John,_ he repeated to himself mentally, holding onto the name for all it was worth. He couldn’t help but smile; it was impossible to hold in the entirety of the waves of emotion crashing inside his chest.

                “Sherlock,” he replied, struggling to keep his voice even.

               John put his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, and his arms tightened. This man, this incredible man, was his everything. Nothing else in the world mattered to him anymore.

                Sherlock glanced around, breathlessly taking in the sight of it all; the green grass, the tan of the bricks of the building beside them, the varying shades of the faces around them. He drew in a shaky breath.

                “I can see,” he whispered, unable to keep the tears out of his voice now.

                “So can I,” John replied.

                After much too short a time, Sherlock finally let go, still keeping his arms on John’s shoulders.

                “Would you like to come with me?” he asked.

                John nodded, smiling. Sherlock smiled again in reply. God that felt wonderful. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d _actually_ smiled. He didn’t have reason to.

                Sherlock began walking, still clinging tightly to John’s hand. He wasn’t going to let go of this man unless it was absolutely necessary.

                “Congratulations,” he heard an onlooker say as they walked by. Sherlock didn’t stop to reply, but continued walking, his mind filled with what seemed like millions of ideas as he contemplated what to do next.

                He wasn’t sure where he was going to take his newfound soulmate, but it didn’t matter. They could go anywhere, and it would all be wonderful as long as he was there.

                He would never have to be alone again.


End file.
